You smell like the earth after a rainfall. The undying musk of thirst escaping from the versions of soil I’ve walked on. My feet is pressing severely over the dull grass blades of words, above the soil with the drought underneath. It hurt. I haven’t told you before that your eyes are not your windows, but the gardens you care less. I can see the vines crawling upward, swallowing you whole, the weeds, strangling the flowers, smothering them as if their love won’t hurt. It did. I just sat with you, looking at the living things, at the visions you live with. I couldn’t come through, fall through. I thirst.

You sound like the sea in the middle of the sunset. The eventide running on the other side of you. cutting the sky in half, cutting you. You sound the same. The calm before a colossal roar that can destroy a city by the sea. A hungry wave, lonely, consuming. The warmth never left. Never came. The promises manifested as sea foam in your mouth. It never went through. I can see your insides, like the water, you were clear,but hollow.

You wished for answers like why does summer rests and winter pays a visit. Why the brittle cold would overstep its welcome, while the other heat left. Not remembering the citrus, the sourness, the stinging sensation to a wound of cut lemons and sharp silences. Not remembering the order of seasons, just days upon days of spring.

You forget. The cold will pass its biting, soon. the smell of hot earth and soil will resonate you again on the living walls. And me in memories. I left for summer to come again.